Oh, Lazarus
by sailormade
Summary: Couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't stand. Sonny distantly remembered slumping to the ground while the world burned around him. After that? Nothing. Darkness. / Preview of The Smell of Blood on the First Four Knuckles's upcoming chapter.


**A/N: **Hi angels! Mak here. It's 10:49 P.M. and I'm posting this quick little preview from chapter three of _The Smell of Blood on the First Four Knuckles_ as an apology for the late update. I've been extremely busy lately; running two 5Ks a week as well as seeing a personal trainer twice a week to polish up my PRT scores, working crazy hours (lifeguarding _and_ swim coaching, r.i.p. to me), and about a billion other things. But! I've got chapter three almost finished, and it should be up relatively soon! Most likely this week. But because I don't have an exact date and I don't want you guys to think I've fallen off the face of the earth, have this little sneak peak from chapter three as a thank you for being so patient and lovely! (as always, luv u babes.)

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**2\. AN ARMY OF GHOSTS. ( **_CHAPTER TWO._** ) **— **PREVIEW.**

The scent of vanilla-cinnamon hung in the air. The smell was deeply familiar to Sonny, almost intimate, and it overpowered the smell of everything else lingering in his nose; the sweat and gunpowder and blood, the smoke and dust and gasoline. . . He tried with all of his impressive might to pry open his sore eyes, but his body was too damn weak to cooperate with what his mind was telling it to do. Sonny could only cling to that warm, comforting scent as his body was jostled to-and-fro. He silently prayed that it was Bravo Team transporting him to exfil as opposed to a small band of the surviving tangos kidnapping him for later retribution.

What the hell happened? Everything had been quiet when him and the rest of Bravo Team arrived at the target location; The downed drone was being stored in a squat, rundown little building in the middle of Syria, over forty five miles away from the nearest inhabited town. All that stirred in the trees were birds. For once, it seemed as though their mission was going to go down without a hitch—not counting Jason's pissy attitude and Clay's moping, that is.

The tangos came out of nowhere. _Absolutely nowhere._ One minute Lieutenant Commander Blackburn was telling them that ISR looked all clear, and the next well over fifty tangos were charging out of the surrounding foliage, guns and eyes blazing. Bravo Team scattered to find cover from the sudden hail of gunfire, and Blackburn was suddenly screaming _Pull back! Pull back! You're surrounded! _into all of their comms.

. . . and then came the explosion. The building that housed their downed drone detonated without warning and the scope of Sonny's world narrowed down to flames. Bravo Team was _just_ far enough away from the blast to get away with not being incinerated where they stood, but Sonny only had half a second to be grateful for that little miracle. The realization dawned on him quickly; the explosion served not only to destroy the drone and the Navy's chances of recovering what was left of it, but as a distraction, too.

In retrospect, Sonny wished that he'd realized that a fraction of a second earlier.

Just as suddenly as the explosion itself, Sonny couldn't breathe; Pain struck him bluntly in the center of the chest and robbed him of his breath— His vision dimmed around the edges as he called out for help, stumbled in the dirt, and then there was _more pain. . . _this time lower, searing its way through his left leg.

Wet. He'd felt wet then. Bleeding. He was bleeding everywhere.

_Couldn't breathe._ _Couldn't see. Couldn't stand._

Sonny distantly remembered slumping to the ground while the world burned around him. After that? Nothing. Darkness.

Jesus Christ. Where was he? Who had him? His brothers? Please, God, let him be in the hands of Bravo Team and no one else. And where on earth was that vanilla-cinnamon smell coming from? Sonny kept trying to open his eyes, to twitch his fingers, to do anything at all. . . but still, he couldn't.

And so instead Sonny did the only thing that he could: Pray.


End file.
